


Antithesis

by unknowableroom_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Drama
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-02-14
Updated: 2009-02-14
Packaged: 2019-01-19 06:46:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12405171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unknowableroom_archivist/pseuds/unknowableroom_archivist
Summary: One day, perhaps, he dares to hope, she will leave him alone.





	Antithesis

**Author's Note:**

> Note from ChristyCorr, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Unknowable Room](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Unknowable_Room), a Harry Potter archive active from 2005-2016. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project after May 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Unknowable Room collection profile](http://www.archiveofourown.org/collections/unknowableroom).

**"After all this time?"**

 

_In me there meet..._

The delicate skin of the eyelid, so thin it is almost see-through in the cold light, quivers slightly. Along the curve the dusk-dark lashes look frenzied, alternating clumped and separated, curving back in to the eye or sticking straight out; a handful have come detached entirely and lie like a spray of flowers on the nearby skin. The colours are almost beautiful, dusty mauves fading into inky blues and soft silvers turning to black. And dried in a perfect teardrop shape at the edge of the eye, a thin trickle of blood.

At the top of the eye socket, just above the eyebrow matted with red, he can just make out a faint mark of knuckles on her forehead.

Shaking, he leans forward and puts his ear to her lips. The ragged breathing warms his cheek and the relief flows through his very blood. She's _alive_ , his every breath reminds him. Looking fearfully out of the windows at the rudely twinkling stars, he lies down beside her, pulls her hand _(cracked, bloodied nails and long white scratches)_ to rest on his cheek, and curls round to sleep.

_...a combination of antithetical elements..._

The delicate wrist of a child, freckled and with too-long, spidery fingers, which fiddle with tendrils of hair the colour of rust. The nose is sprinkled liberally with freckles, and as he watches her she is bewailing them, comparing to his smooth and pale complexion. As is always the case, he knows not what to say.

_...which are at eternal war..._

Ten years later, twenty years later, the sharp freckled wristbones of a child still stir something painful within him, and he clutches at his desk hoping, praying, _pleading_ that she will leave him alone.

_...with one another..._

The hiss sends a shiver down his spine every time. It feels like it's been a thousand years, and yet he is still not sure that he'll ever get used to spending extended periods of time with a snake, who slithers past his foot like a whisper, like a breath.

She has shed her skin and it lies in the corner, a shadow of herself and he suddenly hears his heart beat, chiming in understanding. He too sheds parts of himself and leaves them in the corner of each room he enters. He has begun to see the world, not from behind his eyes, but from outside himself, observing the dark-haired man with his thin lips. He is an observer of the great chess game, of pawns and knights and stalemates.

He is a pawn, he finds himself admitting with a heavy heart, and a quiet murmur of _yes, my Lord_.

As the hollow cheeks stretch into an achingly menacing smile, the Dark Lord stretched out an arm and tapped his shoulder with one, matchstick-thin finger, just as the golden eyes of the serpent flickered and glowed in the wand light.

_You appease Lord Voldemort, Severus. Keep it up._

Even five years on, it still takes every ounce of strength you have not to shudder at the ice-like cold that begins to pervade every cell in your body. You lower your eyes, a sign of disgust that you know Riddle's arrogance will confuse with submission.

_...I am..._

He is a pawn, he finds himself admitting with a heavy heart, and a quiet murmur of _yes, Headmaster_.

The twinkle in those blue eyes is unbearable. This is harder, somehow, than telling outright lies to Death Eaters. Albus sees. Albus knows. Albus watches how he flinches at the mention of the child, Albus follows behind him when he stands in the old, rusting playground, watching a ghost of a shadow that only he can see and yes, frankly, he's going mad.

He can do nothing more than bitterly follow orders:golden handcuffs moulded by Cupid. He knows that every moment he spends helping the Order is one more moment that her memory stays alive.

_...but a living ganglion..._

James Potter's phantom fist is still agony in his stomach. Sirius Black's phantom laugh still barks, as Remus Lupin's phantom eyes roll as his tight-lipped attempts not to snigger fails and Peter Pettigrew's phantom frown is still fearful. Every memory that Occlumency has so carefully hidden is making its destructive way through his mind.

But he could not stay away. A cold, grey rock urges him to be here.

Even though her stone says Potter, she'll always be Evans to him.

_...of irreconcilable antagonisms._

**"Always."**

 


End file.
